


infract

by taonsils (mirokkuma)



Series: tattoo artist au [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, tattoo artist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirokkuma/pseuds/taonsils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zitao's just a kid sometimes, with wanting some permanence of what he loves on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	infract

**Author's Note:**

> Since this series turned a year old I've been working my way through rewriting it so it better suits my current feelings and views on things. ty for understanding while it's under maintenance~

The largest, heaviest key on the link Junmyeon keeps in his left pocket is for the tattoo studio. Strictly speaking he shouldn't have one, being neither a resident artist nor property owner, but there's not much strictly speaking involved when your best friend runs the place and employs your partner. He has it in case of emergencies, favours, errands. He knows which of those he's considering tonight as, and it's making his expression grim. 

The studio is closed up for the night, but when Junmyeon rests his hand at the glass pane in the door he can hear the lowest notes of a machine at work. There's light seeping out from behind the counter blinds, and Junmyeon's already confirmed that Zitao isn't at home.

The buzz cuts out abruptly at the clunk and turn of the key. Junmyeon sees that the door shuts behind himself and quietly sets the keys down on the counter. He's not angry. He's tired, concerned, and sighs out the tension of that before he speaks. "It's me, Taozi," he says as he rounds to the screen door separating the waiting area from the beds. "Can I come through?"

No reply comes from inside the safe little enclosure of blinds, counter and screen, but Junmyeon was more giving Zitao warning than asking for permission. Zitao's shoulders still jump a little as the screen clacks open, making him hunch in even tighter where Junmyeon finds him bundled up at his desk.

"You're not allowed in without hyung here," Zitao mumbles after a beat, eyes unfocused at Junmyeon's feet. He tries to shake some of the tension out of his shoulders before pressing back down on the pedal under his chair, bringing the needle back into motion.

Junmyeon doesn't try to talk over the sound of the machine. It's been a long day of meetings, followed by a storytelling session with Zitao's mother. Raising his voice is the last thing he feels like doing, so he just pulls up a chair beside Zitao and watches him work.

Zitao's jeans are folded over the back of the chair his calf is laid out across, shoes tucked under the desk. Despite Junmyeon's unsubtly inquisitive peering he keeps his head down low and focused, following the slow path of the needle over his thigh. There was a little space available between a clawing leopard and some ugly home done stick-and-pokes from an at the time best friend. His station is all still set up — paper towels, used razor, caps. There's three of them, one filled, but his needle is clean. His thigh is bleeding in pinpoint tracks, beading on the surface of the skin.

Junmyeon tilts his head, following the bright red and drying streaks to discern a pattern. It's his name, he's pretty sure, even if a little uneven in Zitao's freehand. Zitao's just a kid sometimes with wanting some permanence of what he loves on his skin, but he progressed from doodling with pens long before he was being trained to. "How's it going?" He asks when the machine cuts out, before Zitao can start up again. Scolding Zitao doesn't get them anywhere.

"Finished." Zitao turns away from Junmyeon to set down the machine and reach for paper towel and the spray bottle. He wets it, folds it, and presses it in hard. Even if it doesn't scar the tracks will be visible for a good few weeks.

"That's good." Junmyeon smiles, warm and worn. It just stays on his face out of habit as they both watch the towel under Zitao's hand start to colour. "Does Jongdae know you're here?"

Zitao sucks at his lower lip. His thigh is stinging, throbbing, but there's still so much anger jammed down inside that won't come out.

"Taozi, you know if Jongdae ever wants to let you go I won't be able to help," Junmyeon says gently. Zitao is a hard worker and passionate about what he does, and Junmyeon couldn't bear to see that thrown away because of the one thing he's working to get away from. Emotions too big make Zitao erratic. It's times like this Junmyeon is most regretful that he still hasn't found the time to understand Zitao's mother tongue more concisely. "He's a nice guy. He'll be good to you if you do the same in return."

Zitao shrugs. "I don't want anyone to be nice to me." He winces and tilts away from the pain, and it's the first time he's raised his head enough for the light to fall across his features. There's more eyeliner pooled under his eyes than slicked over the lids.

The two days since they last saw each other didn't feel as long when Junmyeon was elbows deep in paperwork as they do now. Junmyeon tugs his chair a little nearer and raises a hand, fingers curled in rather than reaching, and waits. Zitao sniffs and offers him another shrug. Which is enough — Zitao withdraws on the rare occasions he doesn't want touch.

"You deserve it, though," Junmyeon tells him. He's so gentle palming Zitao's cheek. He still bristles at first, but Junmyeon's thumb wiping away the wetness under his eye is so warm and strong that he visibly softens. He would more so if the pain in his leg wasn't so sharp, though he wouldn't have so much ink in the first place if it wasn't such an addictive form of agony.

"You know my offer is always there, Taozi," Junmyeon says as he spreads his fingers to take the weight of Zitao's jaw nuzzling into his palm. "You can move in permanently whenever you want."

Zitao is only ever this upset when his family are involved, and having called there first to check on his whereabouts before coming here, Junmyeon wasn't left wondering as to why Zitao wasn't picking up calls. Junmyeon has stayed as close to the edges of involvement with Zitao's family as he can, but never far enough that he can't make sure nothing too untoward is happening. It was bad timing and quick thinking that had them seen together one too many times and Junmyeon excusing himself as a tutor (although it's not _entirely_ untrue; he does fund everything he needs, and he does seem to serve as a human dictionary, translator and thesaurus for Zitao's ever growing vocabulary), and it's been perfectly good cover ever since.

"I know it's been a bad night, but it won't be like this forever."

Zitao's mouth tugs down at the corners. "I don't deserve it," he mumbles into Junmyeon's palm, hot and damp.

The fingers of Junmyeon's other hand work up into Zitao's hair as he shushes him. "You're good at what you do, Zitao. It may not be what they want you to do, but you're going to be successful at this. And.." Junmyeon brushes through the soft stubble above Zitao's ear and back up into his hair, raven blue and stark between his pale fingers. "If for some reason this doesn't work out, you know I'll look after you until you find something that does."

Zitao just sniffs again. Junmyeon tells him that he shouldn't let one person be his everything, but he makes that a pretty hard thing to do when he's the only person that has space in their life for someone like Zitao. "It wasn't about that."

"Ah." There's only two subjects that Zitao's parents scare him away from home for. Junmyeon's already dealt with that with his own parents and seen Jongdae do the same; Zitao's not been as fortunate as they were.

"If I moved in with you then they'd have to know. They'd never talk to me again." In honesty Zitao wants that, sometimes. Seeing Junmyeon every day and never seeing them again is an appealing thought when it's not too real. "And they'd cause problems for you."

Junmyeon makes a little sound at that. There's nothing to say about that that hasn't been discussed before. Zitao's parents think his boyfriend is his own age, casual, another college dropout with tattooed hands. His home life has lapses of normality, when he'll tell Junmyeon how warm his mother's laugh is and how she sometimes touches the skulls dotting his forearm with a gentle hand. How his father praises how well he's adapted to life in a second language; how valuable he is to their household. Zitao is never anything but stilted, kittenish smiles when his mother talks about the future and pretty girls and what they want from their only child, but sometimes that's not enough.

Zitao's suddenly too exhausted to be angry anymore, and Junmyeon's name is still bleeding out of his skin. "This is still practice," he says against the heel of Junmyeon's palm. "Not using ink. It's still practice."

"I'm glad you didn't use ink." Junmyeon sounds casually amiable about that, but it still feels berating. Zitao's not sure Junmyeon was the kind of teenager to sympathise with feelings leading you into stupid, spontaneous actions. "Why don't you pack up your things and we can go home. Jongdae never has to know."

"My parents will think I stayed with my college dropout boyfriend," Zitao says as he reaches to wet another paper towel for his sore skin. "Then they'll be even madder. And think I passed out drunk in a ditch or something and get even more madder."

Junmyeon smiles, because Zitao looks like he needs to see one. "They underestimate your resourcefulness."

 

Junmyeon is looking at Jongdae's art on the walls when Zitao steps in close and blocks his view. His thigh is patched over with paper towel and tape, strips of white through the ink surrounding it. It looks worse than it is. Junmyeon smiles up at Zitao, faltering when he sees fresh tears welling up.

"Sorry, umma," Zitao says quietly, stretching out a decorated hand. Junmyeon takes it, cold in warm, and gently pulls. "I shouldn't have ignored your calls. I know you've been busy and I didn't mean to worry you, I just couldn't talk right away, it—"

"I'd have appreciated you at least texting." Junmyeon gives his hand a firm, warm squeeze. "Teenagers, " he sighs with finality, smile soft and genuine. "Lets go home, Taozi. It's not too late to make it a nice night."

"It's late already." Zitao wipes his face with the palm of his free hand, specks of what had been left of his eyeliner streaked down to his jaw. Home when it's with Junmyeon is a half hour drive, and nice nights generally consist of as long as possible in the ridiculously large bathtub (Zitao doesn't even have to bend his knees). That takes time. Zitao doesn't start work until eleven, but Junmyeon has to leave before eight.

He does look tired, but he's still smiling placid and gentle, fingers rubbing soothingly over the back of Zitao's bare thigh. "There's still time."

There's nearly always still time somehow or another, and on the occasions Junmyeon just can't find any there's always texts and voicemails so awful that Zitao makes sure none of his friends know the passcode to his phone. Junmyeon can be sickeningly kind, and Zitao loves him more than he knows how to process sometimes. He swallows hard, the thorax inked down the centre of his throat bobbing, spread wings rippling. Junmyeon is the only person he's told that it's not a butterfly; it's a moth.

"Tattoo me first."

Ah. Junmyeon blinks up at Zitao, eyes a little wide. The distance between him sitting and Zitao standing isn't far enough that he can't see the way Zitao's looking at him, even with the light behind him. Even if Junmyeon isn't entirely sure where the sudden tension picked back up from again. "I don't know how to," he says carefully, because it's the quickest, softest rejection that comes to mind.

Zitao steps away from Junmyeon and back towards his desk, hands raised in search of cables he's only just disconnected. "You don't need to, umma, I'll do it all. You just have to hold it and draw."

"Taozi." Home. They just need to get home, calm down, wait for the morning. "I can't do something like that. You know what my drawing is like, it'd.."

"That's ok," Zitao cuts in brightly. He has a part-opened zipper running down his thumb, vertebrae inked over the notches of his spine. There's clusters of stars between each knuckle, little trinkets above each nail. There's a crown slanted on top a skull behind Zitao's right ear, and it's only slightly more fond of kisses than the string of thorned roses winding around his left collarbone. Junmyeon had discovered the rest — blurred, scarred, _ridiculous_ , the first time Zitao had undressed ("promise you won't stop liking me, umma, if you see, you're so _nice_ and I.."), and to this day he notices more.

"It's fine however it is, I'll love it," Zitao's saying all in a hurry as he disorganises his cleared station again to get some gloves. "I mean I know how you draw, but, we're different? You have art and— I have art, but I, I like having, I like memories too."

Zitao's explaining with his pulse shaking his voice, but Junmyeon already knows all of this. He understands, and has done since he found another man's name already permanent on Zitao's skin. Zitao had been fifteen, he'd explained, probably not in love. The stick and poke under his ribs is thin and done with a hesitant hand — Zitao said he moved away not long after. Zitao is only nineteen now, but he's been sentimental for tangible memories for a lot longer than he's been licensed to create them.

Junmyeon eases out of the chair slowly, not wanting to startle Zitao when he's evidently already feeling uptight. "You're a professional now, Taozi," he says gently, pressing a hand to Zitao's lower back to keep him in place. "Jongdae would expect better of you. Maybe we could do this another time, when he's here to keep an eye on things." 

Zitao sucks at his lower lip, piercings pushing out on their posts. Sometimes he really, genuinely doesn't pick up on diplomatic reasoning, but Junmyeon's expression is clear enough. 

"I won't, Taozi."

So maybe Zitao is a little lovesick. Maybe he does actually like the terrible voicemails and puns he can't even understand, and he doesn't mind the prospect of either cleaning up after Junmyeon or living under mounds of clothes half as much as he says. Maybe he loves everything but the circumstances under which they've met, and he just wants— he wants what he always does from a sentimental tattoo. A small part of someone to keep and feel kept by, personal, doesn't have to be shown off or taken off. 

"I'd love it forever," Zitao says quietly, but he's still obediently placing things back on his desk. And it just makes Junmyeon want to make tonight go away even more, because he knows himself what forever feels like when you're nineteen. "If you can't— why?" Zitao doesn't need a reason for a no to be a no, but he'd like one to stop himself worrying. 

Junmyeon's hand slips around to Zitao's waist so he can give him a tight squeeze. "Because you're upset and angry." He presses a kiss to Zitao's shoulder, then rests his cheek there. "I don't think you would regret me doing it. But this isn't a memory we should make."

Zitao doesn't want to cry again. People with so much shiny, heavy jewellery don't suit puffy red faces, and his soft silver rings hurt across his eyelids. "I want to move in with you, umma," he says after a gulp, and Junmyeon squeezes tighter. "And upset all your neighbours 'cause they'll have to be nice to me. And I could make a studio in the spare room, and we could see each other every day, and I'd really like if we could see each other every day."

"That all sounds perfect." Junmyeon pushes up on his toes, and Zitao obligingly leans to meet the peck to his damp cheek. It's been two years of every other day; lunch dates; long weekends, and Junmyeon would really like that, too. The longest Zitao has stayed with Junmyeon is three nights, curled up so tightly against his side, pillow stained the cherry red of his hair. 

 

"Maybe," Junmyeon says, turning his keys in his hands while Zitao is worming his taped leg back into his jeans, "We can make some proper plans one day. When things are calmer. How does that sound?" He puts out an arm to steady Zitao as he toes back into his shoes, and he really couldn't be more helplessly endeared to Zitao's smiles if he tried. 

"Good. I'd like to." Zitao still sounds congested when he speaks near Junmyeon's ear, linking their arms tightly as they step out into the darkness of the waiting area. When he was upset he hadn't been concerned with how creepy the studio and street outside looks at this time of night. He's glad Junmyeon came to find him. "Umma, tomorrow, can you come visit?"

Junmyeon slows and steps out of time. He did clear some of his desk earlier, but.. "I can definitely try. If I can't I'll let you know as soon as I do."

Zitao squeezes tight against his side. "Don't text. Hyung reads the notifications if I'm wearing gloves."

It takes some manoeuvring to close the screen door behind them with Zitao attached to Junmyeon's side. "I think you probably owe Jongdae for tonight, though." He flicks the light out next, then tugs Zitao along and out. Even with little more than light pollution Zitao can see Junmyeon grinning all teeth as he leans to lock up. "I'll make it an extra romantic one."

" _No_ , umma," Zitao whines, because Junmyeon doesn't make empty threats. Junmyeon has embarrassing Zitao at his own expense down to a fine art (and Zitao keeps all of it, even if he has to reread it from between his fingers). "I really want to live with you," he says quieter, down at his feet. Movement is sending tight little surges of pain through his thigh, and he's just about far enough beyond the emotion to start feeling tired and miserable about it. 

Junmyeon dips down and around into Zitao's line of vision to give him a smile. Times like this it's not such a sweet sentiment, but it's all they can do to keep it as one. "I know. I'd be happy to have you." With Zitao slowly trudging along it's easy to keep an arm tight around his waist as they walk. He tilts his head onto Zitao's shoulder. "I'd still send awful texts, though," he says after a moment's thought, and Zitao's laugh bursts out high and hicupping, echoing down the narrow street ahead.


End file.
